Let's Do This One Last Time (Take Eleven)
by Kim Chang-Ra
Summary: My name is Penelope Parker.


_Dear Diary,_

_Sorry I keep doing this to you all the time. I'm still trying to figure out all this weird stuff that's happened to me. So let's try this again._

_Today was better than yesterday. I didn't shoot any icky web gunk out of my hands when I didn't want to. I'm glad because I was playing with MJ today. We had a silly string fight on her trampoline. It was so much fun! Her mom wasn't too happy, though, because we made a mess all over her backyard. I had to help clean it up because MJ told her the whole fight was my idea. I'm glad it was silly string and not gross spider string. I'd rather be grounded than have to clean that up! __UGH__!_

_Anyway, we jumped a lot more after we cleaned up our fight, and MJ said I should go back into gymnastics, since I don't wear glasses anymore. (I told her I wanted to try contacts, but don't tell her the real reason!) She says I was bouncing really, __really__ high, and she wanted to teach me some flips and tricks! Can you believe that?_

_I must have been good at them all, too, because she didn't laugh at me like everyone would when I'd fall on my butt all the time in gymnastics. Or ballet. Or ice-skating. This time I laughed first. She tried to do something called a bar-a-knee (can't spell! D:) after she told me I did one, and she fell splat on her face! I almost didn't laugh, but she hit the soft part of the trampoline, so it didn't hurt her a lot. I was so relieved that I laughed. Then she laughed, and we all laughed together. It was the best I've felt all week._

_I wonder if that spider made me stronger somehow. Maybe it made me faster, too. Maybe that's why I could do all those flips MJ taught me—or even lift a boy like Eugene! I've felt light as a feather ever since, but the scale in my Uncle Ben's bathroom says I still weigh the same. I'll ask my gym teacher at school next Monday._

_Aunt May has been a __super__-ginormous help. Like, if it wasn't for her I'd wake up trapped on the ceiling and covered in my own sticky webs! Gross! She wants to teach me how to knit as soon as I figure out how to control it. Maybe then I'll have something to do with my webs the next time I—_

* * *

THWIP.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUGH!"

My hand jerks back without me thinking. It pulls the freshly splatted web off my brand-new diary, but it also pulls the page I'd been writing off with it. I yelp again—the paper is stuck to my flailing hand, and the web that's now wrapped hopelessly around it.

"THIS—IS—THE—TENTH—TIME!" I fling my slimy gray hand around, and the page finally comes off, dropping to the floor near a stack of torn and gluey paper that's been growing beside my bed all evening. The open wound I've inflicted on my diary is too much for me. I spring into bed, reach for the nearest pillow, and _scream_ into it until I can't scream anymore.

That takes a few minutes. Or maybe it's a few hours. I don't even know. I've lost track of time.

"I give up." The bed whooshes as I flump onto the covers. I don't even care that I haven't had ice cream yet, or that I haven't brushed my teeth—or even that I'm not wearing my favorite pajamas. I'm too tired and too worn out to care. All the fun I had at MJ's house today has been torn out of me like the first ten pages of my diary.

_Knock-knock_. Only Aunt May knocks that softly in this house. Sure enough, I hear her gentle voice drifting under the crack in my door.

"Penelope? May I come in?"

I manage to croak out a no. But it's the kind of no that little old ladies like Aunt May know means everything but no.

"Are you all right in there?"

Another croak. "No … " Maybe I'm turning into both a spider _and_ a frog. Like I'm not enough of a freak already.

She's very quiet. "Are you having … focus problems again?"

Now I'm very quiet. Then, I croak again. "Yes."

There's a pause. " … I'll get the shears."

* * *

Focus problems, in this house, mean exactly what you'd think. Aunt May says that if I'm not focusing, then my webs won't focus, either. I won't be able to control when they come out or where they end up if I keep on getting distracted. Oh, sure, you tell an eleven-year-old girl not to get distracted, and what do you think happens? She gets distracted, and suddenly gross glowing spider and gross glowing spider superpowers.

But Aunt May has a lot of something that I could use a lot more of. She _believes_ in me. Maybe she's not my mother, but she helped to raise me like she wanted to be. She said my spider powers can be used to do great things. And she said it in a way that almost made me believe her. Aunts are cool like that sometimes.

So, being cool like that, she's been helping me with these powers more. If I splat out web all over the place, she's right there snipping away at it with her garden shears. She's getting very good at it—she doesn't even worry about waking up Uncle Ben anymore. If something gets stuck on me, she drops everything and tells me to relax and breathe in, out, in, out until it finally falls off.

And so, a few moments later, _snip snip snip_ and all that webbing is in my trashcan where it belongs. It needs to be emptied. Again. And there's no snipping the gluey goop it's left behind on the pages of my diary, either. I've saved what little I can and pinned it to the wall over my desk. It's cluttered with drawings and ideas—everything that's been on my mind over a day and a half.

Aunt May sees some of them. "Now, that doesn't look like the costume I'm seeing scattered around your bed," she says, looking at one of them with a knowing smile.

I blush. My first costume was just a red sweater and the paper bag that had once been my lunchbox. My second costume wasn't much better. I'd made it from just about anything I could find in my closet. A lot of it seemed like a good idea at the time. Two hours of swinging around in the nighttime told me it wasn't.

"It's not too early to think about a better way to hide my face," I shrug back. "Besides, Uncle Ben's luchador mask smells like old sweat. I don't know how long he's had it. I don't even know _why_ he has it!"

Aunt May doesn't answer. So I keep on talking. "My shirt is ugly and hot, my leg warmers are too itchy, my shoelaces are so long that I might trip and fall, and don't even get me started about my old tutu!" The thought of having to clean my web slime out of all those ruffles is actually, _really_ painful to me. "If I'm going to be a hero like you think I can be," I say, "then I should at least look like one _and_ act like one. Heroes shouldn't look and act like … like … _klutzy doofuses_ all the time!"

It's a sign of my stress that those are the best two words I can come up with. Mercifully, Aunt May giggles. Her laugh tinkles like the tea set in her living room. It's one of the happiest sounds I can think of on earth.

"Oh, honey," she soothes, perching herself on my bed. "Everybody falls the first time. Even heroes like your Uncle Ben—and especially superheroes like you. Even I've burned a few trays of cookies when I was your age."

I gasp in mock horror. "No!"

"Oh, yes! We're all going to fall down at least once in our lives, Penelope. That's how you learned to walk when you were a baby, and that's how you learned to run when you were a little girl."

I decide not to bring up my old gymnastics classes and ballet classes. But Aunt May sees the look on my face anyway. "And I remember all those times you told me you fell down in the gym or the dance hall. I still cheered you on. Why? Because I knew you'd get back up. And because of that, I knew you'd be amazing at them. Spider," she smiles, "or no spider."

Was Aunt May was ever a superhero when she was younger? She sure talks like one. I try to picture her flying around New York City in a cape and mask—and end up laughing so hard that I snort like a pig. It's the kind of laugh I didn't know I needed so badly.

I feel much better now.

She gets off the bed. "So tell me what you've been drawing, dear," she tells me. "Is it a new costume?"

I nod. What I want to be my _third_ costume—right now, anyway—is pinned in the middle of my wall. Girls my age have shrines for their sweethearts and crushes, I have shrines for my costumes. Well—and for unicorns. Well—for anything I draw, really, if it looks good enough to pin.

"It's very … sleek. Like a new car?"

"Yep. Bye-bye tutu. Since MJ said I should try gymnastics again, it made me think I should try for something more simple. Like Spandex—a leotard or something."

"Mm. Tell me about the colors. If I tilt my head one way, it looks silver. If I tilt it another, though, it looks more blue."

"It's the only color my webs come in." I had to mix those two colored pencils just right to find out. "I know it's not my favorite color, but I can't make my webs pink unless I dye them. I don't know how to do that yet."

"Didn't you learn how to tie-dye when you were nine?"

"Those were just T-shirts, Aunt May. This isn't a T-shirt."

"Oh. I suppose it isn't." It takes her a second. "Wait—you want to make this out of your own spider webs?"

"Why not? We both know how super-strong it is from having to clean it off me all the time. And you said you wanted to teach me to knit anyway, so … " I shrug.

"Oh," she says again. I see her sneak a look in my trashcan. "Maybe we can save some of this webbing for later, then. If you wanted to learn now."

"Uh … maybe tomorrow," I reply. _After I've calmed down a lot more._ "Thanks for offering."

"No problem."

The doorbell rings just then. Who even rings the doorbell this late in the day? Aunt May doesn't know either.

"I'd better see who that is," she mutters. "Why don't you clean up your room a little more, Penelope? I'll be right back up."

"Okay." She leaves, and shuts the door.

But I don't feel like cleaning up much right now. I've been doing that enough for the past hour with my webs and my diary. So I flump back into my bed, and think some more about my costume. Maybe some ribbons wrapped around my arms and legs, so I can swing from those instead of my icky webs? Or even some little cans of web-stuff strapped to my arms that I can shoot like silly string—only, well … less silly? I smile as I think of playing with MJ today.

Quicker than I can find the words to tell, Aunt May knocks on my door again. "Penelope? Could you come down, please? Some friends of yours are at the door."

I freeze. Someone's at the door for me? But who knows where I live? Who do I know who knows where I live? It can't be MJ, or Aunt May would have said so.

Is it—Oh no. "If it's 'Flash-in-the-Pan', I'm not home," I tell her through the door. "I'm sick. I'm _dead_. I don't care what makes him leave, tell him."

Oh boy. Eugene "Flash" Thompson. The first life I ever saved. He's told everyone at school who'd listen how a masked girl swooped him off the ground. And he's the most popular boy at school, too—so I bet everyone at school really would listen to him. The way he tells the story, you wouldn't know that masked girl swooped him off the ground because he'd just done something monumentally stupid and was about to pay the price for it. Maybe that's why he didn't get detention.

I haven't looked him in the eye since I rescued him. I'm not sure I want him to look back. He might just find out whose eyes were under that brown paper bag. So of course he hasn't told me his _thrilling tale_ yet. He probably thought he'd come over just to tell me. It sounds like something a boy like him would do.

But Aunt May saves me again. "It's … not Flash," she says. She sounds confused. "These friends look … older."

That gets me out of bed. I don't know a lot of older people besides my teachers and my family, so I have no idea who could possibly be asking for me. I haven't changed from my day clothes into my PJs yet, so I head into the hall with a gulp.

* * *

"They told me they help out at school," Aunt May tells me as I head down the stairs, "and that they wanted to ask about some of your artwork. You didn't tell me you'd made artwork for your school!" she teased.

And, truthfully, I didn't. I didn't tell her, because I didn't make anything. Not outside of art class, anyway. So I'm even more confused by the time I come into the living room.

That's when I see who's at the door for the first time.

There's two of them—a black boy and a white-haired girl. Their smiles look friendly enough, but they still look … off to me, for some reason. They're looking at me like they know something I don't. And there's a lot of things I don't know right now.

But I do know one thing. I know right off the bat that these people don't volunteer at any school I've ever gone to. I've never seen them before in my life. And Aunt May wasn't lying—these people really are older than Flash. But they're not _that_ old. I think they might be high school.

They both offer a hand. "Hi!" the girl says cheerfully. "I'm Gwen. This is Miles. You must be Penny Parker?"

"Penelope," I say, much too quickly. I haven't been Penny since first grade, except to Aunt May. "Um … _Penelope_ Parker." I slowly reach out my own hand, and shake the girl's hand, then the boy's.

"_Hey_." The boy's voice is deep—_really_ deep. The kind of deep Uncle Ben's voice would get when I wrestled with him as a kid. So I say "Hey" back, in the gruffest, most wrestler-y voice I can muster.

The boy called Miles laughs. "I like this kid already."

"Focus, Miles," says the girl, Gwen. "So—Penelope. You got a minute?"

"I guess," I shrug. "What's up?"

"Well, Miles and I saw some of your art earlier this week," said Gwen. "We thought it looked really cool. So, since were in the neighborhood, we thought we'd swing by and tell you."

Cool? My art? I mean, unicorns are cool, sure, but come on—they can't be that cool. Actually, now I think about it, I didn't draw any unicorns this week.

I don't even think I drew _anything_ this week.

I blink stupidly. "When did you see this … art?"

Miles smiles. "Last night."

A block of ice freezes the entire living room. Uncle Ben isn't here—he's sleeping in his bedroom. Some part of me, a million miles away, is thankful for that much. But it's not a lot to be thankful about. Aunt May's heard. She's staring at me, confused.

I can't move. I want to tell her to shut the door. I want to run into my bedroom and hide under the covers until I've graduated high school. But the words won't come out. I feel like there's a wad of spider goop in my throat that's choking the breath out of me.

_Oh no oh no they saw me in my costume shooting webs all over the neighborhood and they must have figured out it was me what do I do what do I do_

Gwen leans in to Miles. "I don't think she knows yet."

I finally find my voice. "Kn-knows what?"

And that's when _it_ happens.

* * *

Aunt May says that there are times when you know something, and there are times when you _know_ something.

This is one of those times where I _know_ something.

Something tingles in my brain. That's how it starts. In seconds, it turns into a buzz. Like a bee somehow flew inside my skull and started buzzing its little wings. Seconds after that it's a quiet hum.

My brain feels like it's working at supersonic speeds. My eyes and ears can see so much more now—_hear_ so much more. I already didn't need my glasses, but now they're picking up so much detail. I can see every single hair the cat decided to shed on the floor today. I can hear the beating of my own heart. I can smell the cookie dough Aunt May hasn't put in the oven yet.

And these two teenagers, Gwen and Miles … When I look at them, it feels like my brain is throwing off little lightning bolts of excitement.

This is one of those times where I _know_ something.

My lips barely move, and I speak without thinking.

"You're … like _me_?"

* * *

I pay a lot more attention after that. Aunt May always pays attention—she heard enough to guess why Miles and Gwen are really here. So she invites them inside for cookies.

Thirty minutes later, they're telling their stories around mouthfuls of warm, homemade chocolate chip. The words 'another', 'dimension', and 'universe' pop up a lot. There's other people like them out there—a _lot_ more, they think. Some aren't even people. There are robots—even pigs. But they all have one thing in common—and both Miles and Gwen want to reach out and connect with as many of them as they can through that one thing.

"Like a … Spider-Web?" I offer, wiping cookie crumbs off my face.

They look at each other, surprised. "Yeah," says Gwen. "A Spider-Web. I like that."

I soak in the glory for a split second. "Why are you making it?"

Miles leans in. "The last time we needed more than one Spider-Man, a lot of worlds almost got destroyed. Maybe even this one. We'd like to be ready next time."

"Hopefully there won't _be_ a next time." Gwen's seen the look on my face. "But _if_ there's one … " She tries to say something else, but decides not to.

"But … what can I do, though?" I ask. "I've only saved one boy in all my life! I've been like you for only a day! How can I save the world—or even all the worlds?"

They trade smiles, and stand up. "We don't know," said Miles.

Gwen pulls out a hand. "You want to show us?"

I stand there, totally numb. A boy and a girl I've only known for half an hour are convinced that I have what it takes to protect an entire universe. They think that my icky spider webs are not only art, but ways to fight everything from hissy cats to crime to dimension-destroying evil.

I look desperately at Aunt May.

She's smiling.

Not a big smile—but the kind of smile you get when you _know_ something. The kind of smile that I feel spreading across my own face right now.

Two teens and a little old lady. And they want me to be a hero. For some reason, that feels like enough.

So I turn back to Gwen, smiling wider, and shake her hand. "Ten minutes. Let me get dressed."

And I run back upstairs.

* * *

I don't get dressed just yet. My costume won't take more than five minutes to put on. It'll take about as long to finish something else up first. This time, I'm totally focused. I know exactly what I want to do.

And so, five minutes later, that's exactly what I'm doing:

_Dear Diary,_

_Okay. Let's do this one last time._

_My name is Penelope Parker. I was bitten by a radioactive spider. And ever since last night, I've been the one and only Spider … Girl. Spider-Girl._

_I think you know the rest. I hope you do—because I sure __don't__. I don't know what my costume is going to look like just yet. I don't know what kind of cool gadgets I'd build for it. I don't know everything about what my powers can or can't do. I don't even know if I'm going to fight any bad guys like superheroes do on TV shows._

_You'd think not knowing the answers would scare an eleven-year-old schoolgirl. And yesterday, you'd have been right. But this weird thing happened tonight. Like, even weirder than that bite. Now I'm not scared to find out anymore. I'm excited. More excited than I've ever been in my life._

_Because I just found out there's more of us who want to know those answers, too._

_There's more of us who are going to fall down and go splat on their faces. There's more of us who'll pick themselves up and keep on trying. They'll fall and fall and try and try until they finally get it right. So that's exactly what I'm going to do tonight. I'm going to put on my ugly old shirt, my frilly old tutu, my itchy old leg warmers—and even my uncle's smelly old mask. I'm going to hang with my weird new friends in my cheap old costume, and I'm probably going to fall._

_I'm actually probably going to fall a lot. Like, a __lot__ a lot._

_But I'll still try my best. Why, you ask? Because Aunt May's right. Because I can get back up and be amazing._

_Why?_

_Because the world's a bigger place than I thought. I'm not alone out there anymore._

_Why?_

_Because I'm Spider-Girl._

…

THWIP.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUGH!"

* * *

**A/N: That's one more idea in my brain that wouldn't go away until I'd put pen to paper.**

**Today's nugget of a story was inspired by Katie Cook's contribution to the ****_Spider-verse_****: the adorable Penelope Parker of Earth-11. I've loved Katie's art style since I was first exposed to it in the comics she drew for IDW's ****_My Little Pony_****—go ahead and laugh—and the ending of ****_Into the Spider-verse_**** proved a perfect segue to how Penelope, Miles, and Gwen could first meet each other. Check out Katie's work if you haven't already—and ****_especially_**** check out the film, if you haven't already. It won an Oscar for a reason.**

**As for this story … I've never tried writing exclusively in first-person before, so I can't say for sure how good I am at it. It's tougher than it seems for a guy in his twenties to capture the mindset of a girl in her tweens. All in all, I'm pretty surprised I was able to write all this in less than twenty-four hours.**

**I hope you enjoyed it. Thanks for reading! – K**


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